


Saint Lance

by IcyPassions



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Loneliness, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22208929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyPassions/pseuds/IcyPassions
Summary: Lance relies on his past to carry him forward. It eventually stops working.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 29





	Saint Lance

**Author's Note:**

> This is a songfic, loosely based on my favorite Kanye West track "Saint Pablo". Give it a listen sometime. It's quite powerful.
> 
> This work is entirely of fiction. Please don't share it outside of fanfiction circles!

Lance’s frozen hands trembled against the clashing warmth of his to-go cup of hot chocolate. Acquired from a downtown café, it remained rather full lest he risk burning his tongue. Montreal’s ordinarily unappealing winter weather partially grounded Lance, keeping his free-particle thoughts from wrecking his being. The frigid breeze of the night numbed his brain and stole his breath. It was a drug of necessity, not of pleasure.

His feet led him on autopilot to Parc des Corroyeurs, on the shore of the river. His favorite bench was unoccupied, as it always was at that hour, and he tried to let his muscles relax into the familiar wooden beams. This was no new habit, the cocoa and the park.

The winter of 2017-2018 was a celebration. After winning the F3 championship the year prior, his first year in F1 had led him to a podium and a front row start, achievements unseen by the overwhelming majority of new recruits into the sport. He’d been walking down the crowded streets of his hometown on a mild December day and came upon Café Cantinova. A charming little shop he’d never been in before, he stepped in and ordered a medium, with whipped cream and powder dusted on top. He then made his way to the park and sat, basking in the rare winter sunshine and contemplating the groundbreaking past two seasons.

The cocoa had since become a crutch, a lifeline, linking himself back to that winter and back further to his more successful times. He needed to remember how it felt.

It worked a little less each time.

His second season in the big leagues had been a near waste, with Williams building him a truck and doubts of his abilities settling into the fanbase. They echoed across the news and the paddock.

“Does he deserve the seat?”

“He’s a fraud. His rookie teammate is competing with him!”

“Stupid pay driver, someone else should be there.”

Not that the acidic comments hadn’t been there since the start, but his results that second year couldn’t prove them wrong anymore.

He needed an out, a better car, a new place to prove himself. Lawrence buying Racing Point had been a miracle when he needed it the most. It was difficult to replace Esteban, but he remained supportive of Lance and genuinely wished him well. His time would come again soon.

He would now have a competitive seat and was to be paired with a clear-cut #1 driver in Sergio. It would be good to learn from him and the pressure to beat him was lower, so he thought. Maybe they’d give him a chance now.

The hate instead fueled an inferno when he was finally announced. He’d already been set aflame by the nastier fans of the past, and claiming the new seat was a jerry can poured on his head. He couldn't help that he was paying his way in. Who wouldn't in his position? Wasn't his father saving a Formula 1 team enough of a reason to be there?

His daily venture onto Instagram became a game of trying not to look at the comments on F1’s posts about him. It was often a losing game.

“It’s such a JOKE this guy is in F1 instead of a real talent.”

“Replace him NOW!”

“Slow, bad pay driver taking up a seat”

_Pay Driver._

_Joke._

A morbid curiosity of others’ thoughts about him always overrode any self-preservation tactic he tried, and the words always stung the same.

Throughout the season, Sergio stomped him in every category. He hardly ever got out of Q1, and nearly always watched Checo breeze into Q2. Checo regularly beat him in races as a result. The team supported his efforts, but only because it was their job. His repair bill wasn’t exactly small, contrary to his points tally. When it was all said and done, Lance could no longer hide behind the veil of a bad car or being a rookie. Lawrence’s encouraging words grew tired as Lance drowned, dragging him in with him. The self-loathing began. He started to agree with the anonymous.

Snapped back to the present by a distant train horn, he screwed up his face as his eyes started to water from an unhealthy combination of cold and bitterness. He looked down at the undrinked cocoa, growing colder by the second. The cream had since melted into a thin mush on top of the liquid. Lance broke down and sobbed, his cries echoing across the empty park. The cup fell from his hands and spilled onto the snow under his feet. His face fell into them, and he silently prayed the cold would take him soon.


End file.
